Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series)

by Luiken, Nicole

  She was also worried. Even if they made it to Temborium, how were they going to rescue Wenda? Sara couldn’t bear the idea of seeing her father again, knowing that he’d handed her over to be killed.

  The axe… Unconsciously, her fingers crept up to her neck, searching for a scar that wasn’t there.

  “Don’t.” Lance startled her by grabbing her hands. He held them away from her throat, his eyes tortured. “Don’t, Sara.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her collarbone where her pulse beat, asking forgiveness for what he had done to the tender flesh there. “Don’t.”

  Heat rose in her like the first burst of flavor after sipping brandy. Her hands went to his sandy hair and held him. He strung small, butterfly kisses across her neck that made her want to shatter inside. “Lance.” She was perilously close to tears, but she had to make him understand. “I’m not angry at you for what you did.” Disappointed wasn’t the same as angry.

  He didn’t reply, but opened his mouth over hers, sweeping his tongue inside. Heat ignited in her belly, and she moaned—

  The guard outside coughed, and Sara pulled back. Lance laid his cheek against her forehead and tucked her in close to his body. “At least let me hold you.”

  Unable to deny him, Sara stood in his embrace, soaking up the heat of his large body until finally something relaxed inside her.

  Unfortunately, the feeling of peace didn’t last. Desperate for distraction, she sat and played with her refetti. To her delight, she found she could teach her pet tricks and soon had the refetti sitting up to beg, or chasing his own tail at a signal from her. “Isn’t he bright?” she marvelled.

  “Yes,” Lance agreed. There was a strange look on his face, but when she asked him about it, he indicated the guard’s shadow on the tent wall, and mouthed, “Later.”

  Later never came, but Lance started insisting that she take the refetti along every time she left the tent, even if it was just to use the latrine.

  She noticed that Lance had a bulky belt pouch he carried with him everywhere. When Sara raised her eyebrows at him, he showed her a corner of the carved Qiph box. “A gift for your father,” was all he would say. It puzzled Sara greatly, but she reined in her curiosity.

  When would the attack come? Sara surmised the Protector was gathering her forces—but so was General Pallax. It had to come soon.

  Then, on the second day, the rumors started.

  Sara had tried to cultivate friendships with their rotating schedule of guards, but the story of her stabbing herself seemed to have gotten around because they all answered her warily. However, the tent walls were thin, and the guards liked to gossip among themselves.

  “Did you hear about Brencis?” one of them asked. “Maximus heard a scream, but by the time he got there all he could see was a trail of blood leading off into the woods.”

  Sara and Lance exchanged looks, easily interpreting this as the work of shandies. More patrols were picked off over the next day, and the legionnaires grew baffled and jumpy.

  * * *

  On the third night just before dawn, Sara woke to someone shouting, “Fire!”

  At night, to prevent an escape, a guard was posted in the tent, and Lance was manacled. Despite this unwelcome chaperonage, and a certain amount of frustration, Sara and Lance had taken to sleeping curled together. Now she struggled out of his arms to sit up.

  “What is it?” she asked the legionnaire on duty.

  The lamp silhouetted the legionnaire’s hawkish profile as he peered outside. He swore ripely. “Stay here.” He unsheathed his sword and left at a run.

  Lance and Sara exchanged glances. Rising from their blankets, Sara peeked out the tent flap and saw orange flames against the blackness as they ate at the stockade wall near the cliff. The eerie glow revealed a scene of chaos. Men boiled about everywhere, some armed and armored, some half-naked with swords. A centurion bawled orders and sent men to shovel dirt on the blaze.

  Then came a new sound: a rhythmic boom. It came from the gate, from timbers shuddering under the impact of a ram.

  “Sara, help me,” Lance called.

  She turned and found that he’d cast off the blanket and was straining at his bonds. A long iron chain ran from his wrist, through a spike pounded deep in the ground, to the other wrist. The method had been used for decades to secure osseons.

  Sara rushed over and wrapped her hands around the thick chains. They pulled together with all their strength, again and again, with no effect. “It’s no use,” she panted, falling back after several minutes. “You saw the spike, it’s four feet long.” It had taken five blows with a sledgehammer to drive it into the earth.

  “Keep trying,” Lance told her. “My father pulled one out the night our family escaped.”

  And did your father have two broken fingers? Sara wanted to ask, but now wasn’t the time. She got down on her hands and knees and loosened the dirt around the spike.

  Footsteps ran past outside, but didn’t pause. She heard the howl of a wolf in the distance. Dyl?

  Her fingers soon reddened from the rough work, and dirt caked under her nails, but she kept at it, and on Lance’s next jerk, the spike moved a fraction. “It’s working!”

  “Move out of the way.” When she complied, Lance stood directly over the spike. He took hold of the chain closer to the ground and pulled straight up.

  His face flushed with effort, but it was moving, first three inches of metal showing, then eight inches, a foot—

  “General Pallax wants me to—”

  Sara’s head whipped around. The hawk-nosed guard had returned. He took in the scene, eyes widening. “Vez’s Malice,” he cursed.

  His sword was sheathed. Sara threw herself forward, clinging to his arms. “Hurry!” she yelled at Lance.

  The legionnaire tried to fend her off, but wasn’t ruthless enough to use his sword on a woman.

  In the next second, Lance heaved the four-foot spike out of the ground and hefted it like a spear. “Out of the way.”

  Sara threw herself to one side.

  The spike gave Lance the advantage of reach, but his first two feints were easily turned. Then the legionnaire stepped into range and stabbed upwards. Lance barely jumped back in time.

  Sara grabbed the stool and threw it at the legionnaire’s hairy legs. He yelped, and while he was distracted, Lance speared the spike through his shoulder. He cried out and dropped to his knees. His sword fell to the ground, and Sara kicked it out of reach.

  “Put out your hands,” Lance said harshly. “Once you’re tied up, I’ll heal you.”

  For some reason, this terrified the hawk-nosed legionnaire. “No! Stay away!” He tried to back away and jarred his own shoulder. His olive-skinned face bleached white with shock, and he passed out.

  Lance caught him before he could fall on the spike still embedded in his shoulder. “Sara!”

  Sara tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her dress and used it to bind the legionnaire’s hands. Lance then removed the spike with a quick pull and put his hands on the bloody hole. “Goddess.”

  Sara wrenched her gaze away from the sight of Lance healing—his eyes were closed and his expression was almost transcendent—and began to hunt for the keys to Lance’s manacles. She found them attached to the legionnaire’s belt and had Lance free before the Goddess-glow had faded.

  Underneath the metal, his wrists had been scraped raw.

  “They need to be wrapped,” Sara told him.

  “There’s no time.”

  Sara controlled her exasperation. Reminded, she looked at his fingers and was surprised by how little swelling there was. Surely bones didn’t normally heal that fast? Of course, arthritis didn’t normally clear up after a few days either… She wondered how long they had before Lance succumbed to another illness.

  “Help!” the hawk-nosed legionnaire called, conscious once again.

  Sara gagged him with the cloth napkins from their luncheon, then looked around nervously. The sounds of battle should have drow
ned him out, but…

  “Don’t follow us.” Lance picked up the spike and rammed it downward. Sara flinched, but he’d only pinned a fold of the legionnaire’s undertunic to the ground.

  Lance grabbed Sara’s hand, and they ducked out of the tent together.

  The eastern sky held a slight tinge of gray, but the cold stars still shone down. The stockade fire had burned almost all the way to the cliff, but failed to catch on the wet ground. Some fighting was going on in the gap, but most of the legionnaires were standing in disciplined ranks in front of the gate, waiting for the battering ram to finish its job.

  Sara had a dreadful feeling the upcoming battle was going to be a slaughter. True, the shandies were fearsome fighters, but only at close range. What was going to happen when they ran into that line of archers didn’t bear thinking about.

  Lance had slowed almost to a stop, obviously thinking along the same lines. “They’ll need a healer…”

  “They have a healer,” Sara said with as much certainty as she could muster. “Your mother wouldn’t go into battle without one. Why do you think they’ve waited this long?”

  “We don’t know—” Lance started.

  Sara spoke over him. “And if they don’t, then someone else will just have to sacrifice their health.” She softened her expression. “Your people need a Kandrith a lot more than they need a healer.”

  Lance gave a small shiver. “You’re right.” He pulled her into a crouch, and they darted from tent shadow to tent shadow, heading for the cliff.

  The winch’s creaking noise made it easy to locate. “Faster, faster!” the overseer cried. Eight osseons had been woken up and put back to work hauling men up from base camp. Cords stood out on their arms, and their backs ran with sweat in the torchlight.

  “Wait until it’s unloaded,” Sara said to Lance. “I’ll try to talk them into giving us a ride down.”

  He waited, but she felt his muscles tense. Every legionnaire who made it up was one more soldier set on killing his countrymen. She understood that, even felt some of it herself, but the idea of cutting the ropes and letting the legionnaires fall to their deaths was just as unpalatable to her.

  More creaks, then the distinctive hissing slash of a whip. “Faster!”

  Sara buried her head against Lance’s back, both so she wouldn’t see and to hold him back.

  The platform leveled out, and the legionnaires rushed off. Sara counted ten men with swords, though one seemed to be missing his breastplate.

  “What are you waiting for?” bawled the overseer. “Lower it down!”

  The winch began to spin, the ropes feeding through the osseon’s hands. Sara ran forward. “Stop!” She appealed to the overseer, a balding, bull of a man with muscles gone to fat. “I’m Sarathena Remillus, the Primus’ daughter. I need to go down. General Pallax has ordered me to safety.”

  The overseer frowned. “Where’s your escort?”

  “He was killed by an arrow.” She waved a hand indicating the battle, lying without compunction. “The Slavelanders have broken through on the other side. The attack on the gate was a feint. You have to send me down now. You can’t let them get their hands on the Primus’s daughter.” She let her fear show.

  “I’ve heard rumors about you,” the overseer said. Sara held his breath while he came to a decision. “Here’s what we’ll do. You get on the platform—haul it up, boys! I can send you down lickety-split if it looks like we’ll be overrun. In the meantime, you send your slave to run and bring back someone with authority.”

  Vez’s Malice. “But—” Sara started.

  Lance exploded into motion. His elbow struck the overseer in the throat. When the man choked and staggered back, Lance followed up with hard blows to his stomach, knocking him down. Lance knelt on the overseer’s chest. He put one hand on the fat man’s throat and passed a ring of keys to Sara. “Unchain them.”

  Sara obeyed. The first man held his hands out to her, brown eyes full of desperate hope. She turned the key in the lock, and the manacles fell away.

  “Escape is that way.” Lance pointed.

  The osseon nodded his thanks and left at a lope.

  Sara moved on to the next in line, who was already holding out his hands. “Hurry.”

  Sara hurried, but the fitful torchlight made it difficult. It took her precious seconds to find the lock, and, of course, she had to do it seven separate times. The third man lingered, making her fumble.

  “Don’t wait for me, Madaug!” the last man said. He was badly scarred, one eye gone entirely, but he had the same shock of red hair that Madaug did. Brothers?

  Madaug just shook his head.

  The overseer tried to say something but gargled when Lance applied pressure to his windpipe.

  “If you’re going to wait around, I’d appreciate your hand on the winch,” Lance told Madaug. “Sara and I have need of it.”

  Madaug looked curious, but didn’t ask. He put his hand to the winch handle, bracing it.

  Sara freed his one-eyed friend, who was all but squirming with impatience.

  “What are you going to do with him?” Madaug indicated the overseer.

  “Chain him up,” Lance said promptly. He hauled the fat man to his feet, keeping one arm around his neck.

  Sara worried that the ex-slaves might be bent on revenge, but Madaug just laughed. “He’ll be in a world of trouble when he’s found.” He waited until Lance had manacled the overseer and taken over the winch, then vanished with his brother off into the night.

  Lance fixed the overseer with a grim glare. “I don’t like whip-wielding cowards. Make a sound, and I’ll break your neck.” He tossed both whip and keys over the cliff, then hauled on the winch. Within moments the empty platform appeared. Lance pried up two loops of rope connected to the middle of the platform. “Hold these.”

  Sara took them with both hands, ready to be pulled half off her feet, but it cost hardly any effort at all to keep the platform up.

  Lance gave the winch several spins, unwinding it so that spools of rope dangled over the cliff. The loops Sara held become lines. When the winch was bare, he took the ropes from Sara and stepped onto the platform, swinging his leg over the railing. “Get on.”

  Sara eyed the swaying platform uneasily. “Are you sure you can hold our weight?”

  “Yes,” Lance said.

  He didn’t appear strained, and standing here risked discovery. She stepped on, clutching at the rail. The platform swung back and forth, making her very aware of the long fall below.

  Lance immediately began to use the two ropes to lower them. “Wish I’d wrapped my hands,” he hissed.

  Above them, the overseer yelled for assistance.

  They were only ten feet down the cliff face. Sara tried to remember how high the cliffs at the Gate had been. One hundred feet? One hundred and fifty?

  “We have to go faster,” Sara said.

  Lance shook his head, while methodically lowering them hand over hand. “Any faster and the rope will burn through my fingers.”

  The thought of plummeting down and smashing into the ground below chilled Sara, but already she could hear other voices at the top. She added her hands to the rope, helping so that Lance could lower them faster. Fifteen feet, twenty—

  The platform shuddered to a stop.

  Sara tipped her head back and saw three pairs of hands hauling back on the ropes. A jerk and the platform moved up a few inches. “What do we do?” Sara yelled.

  “Nothing,” Lance said grimly.

  The platform rose another foot. Sara gasped and clung to the rail as one end tilted precariously.

  “Keep it even or she’ll fall off,” Lance called angrily.

  After a few more jolts, the platform rose more smoothly. Frustration simmered inside Sara: to have come so close and yet failed. After this, they would be guarded more heavily. There would be no travel to the Republic until General Pallax conquered Kandrith. By then it would be too late.

  “Do you hear som
ething?” Lance asked suddenly.

  Sara could hear the rope creaking, the wind bumping the platform against the cliff and sending down tiny showers of dirt, far away screams and sounds of battle, the rough breathing of the men hauling them up, a strange rhythmic flapping, and—Sara’s heart sank—General Pallax’s voice. He was waiting for them at the top. What would she do, if he killed Lance on the spot?

  Lance gave a low laugh. “I don’t believe it. Goddess bless Cadwallader. He saw it.”

  “What?” Sara asked, confused. They were only twelve feet from the top now.

  Lance grabbed her hand and pulled her down to a sitting position on the edge of the platform. Their legs dangled over that horrific drop. In the dark, it seemed infinite.

  “Get back from there,” General Pallax shouted down. “I already gave you my word I wouldn’t kill him.”

  Lance ignored him. “Dulcima’s here,” he said.

  Before Sara could ask who Dulcima was, her eyes picked out the black shape of a horse against the dark gray sky—a horse with two huge wings attached to its shoulders. The shandy had large liquid eyes, a gracefully arched neck and a mane like black silk. “What a beauty,” Sara said involuntarily.

  Dulcima underflew the hoist, and Lance scrambled onto her back as she passed. Sara hesitated a moment too long.

  Above, General Pallax swore. “Faster!”

  The platform lurched upwards, the winch groaning. Only eight feet from the top now. Sara searched desperately for Lance and the shandy, finally picking them out against the cliff face. Dulcima had circled around and was flying back, her great wings sweeping back and forth.

  But the winch was winning the race. Six feet from the top now. Sara edged farther away from the arms reaching for her, her weight balancing on the edge of the seat—

  Arrows hissed through the air. Sara caught sight of Lance’s anguished face as Dulcima swerved away.

  A hand caught her shoulder.

  Sara slipped out from under it by throwing herself flat on her stomach. But the platform was still rising; they would have her in another minute. She swung her legs over the side and clung to one of the guardrail posts.